


Tell Him

by satb31



Series: 1,000 Follower Giveaway Fics [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, M/M, Mindless Fluff, Secret Relationship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 08:02:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satb31/pseuds/satb31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly and Bahorel been dating secretly, and Bahorel convinces Feuilly it’s time to tell the rest of the group -- working their way up to telling Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Him

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user walkers-at-the-barricade, based on the following prompt: After a long discussion Bahorel finally manages to convince Feuilly that it’s time to tell the group about their relationship. The Amis are certainly taken by surprise.
> 
> I have never written Feuilly before -- and certainly not with Bahorel -- so please be kind!

Bahorel lay on his back, a sheen of sweat on his golden skin, his mouth wide open as he gasped for air.

“Was it good for you?” Feuilly asked teasingly, equally breathless as he slid off Bahorel and came to rest on his side next to him, his dark eyes glassy and his mouth forming a satisfied smile.

“What do you think?” Bahorel growled playfully, reaching up to rustle Feuilly’s dark curls.

Feuilly kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Let’s just say I was worried your downstairs neighbor was going to complain again.”

Bahorel chuckled. “I think she must be used to it by now. I mean, you’ve been here just about every night for weeks,” he said, kissing Feuilly gently on the forehead.

Feuilly didn’t answer, leaning his head against Bahorel’s shoulder dreamily, recalling how they’d first hooked up — on a cold March evening after a meeting of Les Amis, when they had lingered over drinks afterwards, discussing their mutual interest in starting a fair wage campaign in the city. They’d never really spent much time together — Bahorel was more likely to spend his time in pubs with Grantaire and Bossuet, while Feuilly was more of a loner, being the one member of the group who wasn’t attending the university.

But the more they talked, the more they discovered they had in common — and eventually they had staggered back to Bahorel’s untidy apartment, where Feuilly had put his marvelous hands to work making Bahorel howl with desire.

“You know, we can’t hide out here forever,” Bahorel finally said, breaking Feuilly’s reverie. “Someday we’re going to need to tell the guys.”

“Why? I like having you all to myself,” Feuilly said, tracing his fingers down the center of Bahorel’s broad chest.

Bahorel shrugged. “Because it feels weird that none of them know about us, I guess. I’ve not really been, shall we say, discreet about who I was dating before, you know. They’ve all known exactly who I was fucking — and how,” he admitted.

Feuilly propped himself up on one hand, still looking at Bahorel. “And you want them all to know you’re fucking me,” he said, a bemused smile on his face.

“They all want to tap your ass, Feuilly,” Bahorel said. “From Enjolras all the way down. And I’m the one who finally got to do it. So maybe I want to brag a little. Is that so wrong?” he asked.

Feuilly hesitated for a moment. “I do have the best ass in the Musain,” he mused.

“Indeed,” Bahorel said, cupping Feuilly’s ass with one large hand and pulling him toward him, kissing him langorously. “Let’s tell them,” he murmured against Feuilly’s lips.

“All right,” Feuilly relented. “But not just yet,” he said, moving his free hand below Bahorel’s waist, sensing his arousal. “I think I’ll have my hands full for a while.”

**

The first person Feuilly told was Prouvaire.

Feuilly had always felt an affinity for the young poet, so when they were out for a walk on a warm, bright Sunday afternoon, he decided to share his news.

“You and Bahorel?” Jehan said, stopping abruptly to look Feuilly up and down. “I must say, I had no idea,” he said, clasping his hands to his heart.

Feuilly shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels. “It’s only been a few weeks, but — I really care for him,” he confessed.

“It’s marvelous!” Prouvaire exclaimed. “Bahorel has always reminded me of a lover in an medieval ballad somehow — a modern day Lancelot,” he enthused. “And you, his Guinevere.”

Feuilly reddened. “I don’t think it’s quite that romantic,” he said with a slight smile. “And it didn’t end well for them, did it?” he pointed out.

“No matter,” Prouvaire said, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s the chivalry, the romance. Oh, it’s so wonderful!” he enthused.

Feuilly smiled shyly. “We’re pretty happy together,” he admitted.

“So have you told Enjolras yet?” Prouvaire asked, as they commenced walking again.

Feuilly shook his head, daunted by the prospect of letting their leader know that two of their members were fraternizing.

Prouvaire nodded and put an arm around Feuilly’s shoulder. ”I’m sure he’ll won’t mind at all. Enjolras wants nothing more than for his beloved Feuilly to be happy,” he assured him.

Feuilly nodded quickly — hoping Jehan was right.

**

The next week Bahorel decided to spring his news on his favorite compatriots in inebriation — Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire — as they sat around an outdoor table at Corinthe.

“So how is that mistress of yours?” Grantaire inquired slyly, tossing a handful of peanuts into his mouth. They were well into their fourth round of drinks, which was typically when tongues started to loosen.

“Oh, I have a new mistress,” Bahorel said, trying to sound casual. He had felt so confident going into this evening, but he suddenly felt queasy about the whole thing.

“Really?” Bossuet asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s her name?”

“Feuilly,” Bahorel responded simply, taking a long pull on his drink. “It’s Feuilly,” he repeated.

“You and Feuilly?” Joly exclaimed, putting down his beer and staring at Bahorel. “I had no idea,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Congratulations, man,” Bossuet enthused. “You’re a lucky bastard,” he added, earning himself a glare from a jealous Joly.

“I didn’t even know you liked dick,” Grantaire confessed with a smirk, signalling their server to bring them another round.

Bahorel shrugged. “Neither did I. But Feuilly — god, the things he can do with his hands—” Bahorel stopped himself, knowing Feuilly would hate it if he told his friends any more details.

“Oh, I bet. Much better than Mr. Fumble Fingers over here,” Joly said with a chuckle, nodding toward Bossuet, who flipped him the finger.

Grantaire peered at Bahorel, tapping his fingers on his pint of beer. “So have you told Enjolras yet?”

Bahorel shook his head. “No, not yet. We wanted to work our way up to it. Prouvaire knows, and we’re having dinner with Combeferre and Courfeyrac on Saturday.”

Grantaire downed half of his drink as he processed Bahorel’s answer. “I guess he’ll just have to deal with it. And I — I mean, we — will get to deal with the consequences of him dealing with it.”

Bahorel pursed his lips. Much as he wanted to be open about his relationship with Feuilly, it was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

**

“Holy shit, really?” Courfeyrac said, throwing back his head and laughing so loudly he attracted the attention of several other restaurant patrons. “You guys are dating? Seriously? That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard since Pontmercy came to tell me he was there to sleep with me,” he said,

Bahorel looked ready to throttle him, while Feuilly sat next to him, his face crimson with embarrassment. Combeferre eyed Courfeyrac sternly, then turned back to Feuilly with a warm smile. “I’m thrilled for you both. Truly. I can’t think of two people who deserve to be happier,” he said gently.

Courfeyrac was still grinning madly. “Yeah, man, me too. I mean, if I couldn’t have Feuilly, then Bahorel is a decent second choice.” Bahorel reached over and punched him in the shoulder hard enough to cause Courfeyrac to whimper.

“The question is,” Combeferre said thoughtfully, “How do we tell Enjolras? Next week we have a big rally, so he’s not going to want any distractions.”

“We could not tell him,” Feuilly suggested mildly.

Bahorel shook his head. “We’ve come this far,” he said, patting Feuilly’s knee under the table. “He has to know what’s going on in his own organization. We’ll tell him at tomorrow’s meeting.”

Combeferre nodded sagely. “I’ve known Enjolras for years — he doesn’t like surprises, but if you just get it out there, he’ll have to just process it and move on to more important things. At least what he thinks are more important things,” he amended, seeing a flash of indignation in Bahorel’s eyes. “Hopefully he will have had his coffee so he doesn’t yell at anyone.”

Feuilly’s eyes widened, anticipating the scene, while Courfeyrac chortled, “Oh, this is going to be good.”

**

Enjolras looked around suspiciously as he entered the backroom of the Musain and tossed his messenger bag on the table. “So who died?” he asked impatiently.

“No one died,” Courfeyrac assured him. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re never all here on time,” Enjolras pointed out. “You don’t think I notice when you sneak in the back late? For all of you to be here — even Pontmercy — it just seems a little suspicious.”

Bahorel cleared his throat and wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans as Enjolras withdrew his laptop from his bag and powered it up. “Everything’s fine,” he reassured him. “But — we have news,” he said solemnly.

Enjolras stopped and peered at him curiously. “News? About what?”

Feuilly grew suddenly bold, reaching across the table and taking the Bahorel’s large hand in his own elegant one. “We thought you should know we’re dating,” he declared.

Enjolras paused, looking back and forth between the two of them. “I know,” he said diffidently, turning back to his laptop.

Feuilly and Bahorel exchanged confused glances. “How the fuck did you know that?” Bahorel asked incredulously.

“Oh, Marius told me weeks ago,” Enjolras said, not looking up.

Eight pairs of eyes were suddenly trained on Marius, who looked as if he was about to vomit. “I saw you two outside Bahorel’s apartment a few weeks ago. I was going to say hello, but you seemed — um — busy?” he stammered, coloring slightly. “So I asked Enjolras about it.”

“Jesus fuck, Marius,” Grantaire cried. “Why didn’t you tell the rest of us?”

Before Marius could manage a reply, Enjolras cleared his throat. “I think we have more important things to worry about than who Feuilly is sleeping with, don’t you think?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain as he glared at Grantaire.

“Of course,” Combeferre said calmly. “But we all thought it was better that you knew.”

Enjolras nodded at his best friend. “I appreciate that.” He then turned to Bahorel, who was watching him warily. “Just take good care of Feuilly,” he said, his eyes aflame. “Or I’ll fuck you up myself.”

Bahorel suddenly grinned — even though he knew Enjolras wasn’t joking. “Don’t worry,” he assured Enjolras — and the whole group. “He is — and I am — in very good hands.”


End file.
